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THE JEW. 



A COMEDY, 



IW FIVE ACTS. 



BY RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ, 



■Afi performed at the Philadelfihia TheatYe, 



PHILADELPHIA^ 



PUBLISHED BY THOMAS H. PALMER, 



18S3. 



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DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



sir Stephen Bertram* •»••••••••••• •Mr. Warren. 

Frederic •••••••••• Wood, 

Charles Ratcliffe* • ••••••••••• Cain. 

Saunders •••••••••••••••• Warrell. 

Sheva •••••• ••••• Bernard. 

Jabal* •••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Blissett. 

Mrs. Ratcliffe ••••••• •••• • (Mrs. Sha-w. 

Eliza Ratcliffe Wood. 

Mrs. Goodison* • ••••••• ••• Solomons^ 

Dorcas •••#••••••••••••••••••••••• Francis. 

SCENE— London. 



/cn<'- 



THE JEW. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I— cz/z afiartment in the house of sir Ste- 
phen BERTRAM. 

enter sir Stephen Bertram and Frederic, 

Sir Stefi. Why do you press me for reasons I*m 
not bound to give ? If I chuse to dismiss an 
assistant clerk from my counting-house, how 
does it affect you ? 

Fred. That clerk you took at my recom- 
mendation and request : I am therefore inter- 
ested to hope you have no reasons for dismiss- 
ing him that affect his character. 

Sir Stefi. I am your father, sir, and in this 
house sole master ; I have no partners to ac- 
count to ; nor will I brook any comments on 
my conduct from my son. 

Fred. Yet, as your son, may I not, without 
risking your displeasure, offer one humble word 
upon the part of a defenceless absent friend ? 

Sir Stefi. A friend ! 

Fred. Yes, sir, I hope I need not blush to call 
Charles Ratcliffe friend. His virtues, his mis- 
fortunes, his integrity, (you'll undeceive me if I 
err) have much endeared him to me. 



x^ 



4, THE JEW. [Cumberland 

Sir Step.. Say rather his connexions : Come, 
I see where all this friendship points — to folly, 
to disgrace — therefore no more of it ! Break 
off! new friendships will not cost you dear ; 'tis 
better you should cease to call him friend, than 
put it in his power to call you brother. In one 
word, Frederic, I never will accept of Ratcliffe*s 
sister as my daughter-in-law — ^nor, if I can pre- 
vent it, shall you so far forget yourself, as to 
make her your mistress. 

Fred. Mistress ! Good Heaven !— you never 
saw Miss Ratcliffe. 

Sir Stefi. I wish you never had. — But you 
have seen your last of her, or me— I leave it to 
your choice. [exit 

Fred. I have no choice to make ; she is my 
wife — and if to take beauty, virtue, and elegance 
without fortune, when my father would have me 
take fortune without them, is a crime that me- 
rits disinheritance, I must meet my punishment 
as I can. The only thing I dread is the severe 
but honourable reproach of my friend Ratcliffe, to 
whom this marriage is a secret, and whose dis- 
interested resentment I know not how to face : 
I must dissemble with him still, for I am unpre- 
pared with my defence, and he is here. 

enter charles ratcliffe. 

Char. Well met, Frederic ! 
Fred. I wish I could say so. 
Char. Why ? what*s the matter now ? 
Fred. I have no good news to tell you. 
Char. I don't expect it, you are not made to 
be the bearer of good news ; knavery engrosses 



Act I] THE JEW. 5 

all fortune's favour, and fools run up and down 
with the tidings of it. 

Fred. You are still a philosopher. 

Char. I cannot tell that, till I am tried with 
prosperity : it is that which sets our failings in 
full view; adversity conceals them.*— But come, 
discuss : tell me in what one part of my com- 
position the ingenious cruelty of fortune can 
place another blow. 

Fred. By my soul, Charles, I am ashamed to 
tell you, because the blow is now given by a 
hand I wish to reverence. You know the tem- 
per of sir Stephen Bertram : he is my father, 
therefore I will not enlarge upon a subject that 
would be painful to us both. It is with infinite 
regret I have seen you (nobly descended, and 
still more nobly endowed) earning a scanty 
maintenance at your desk in his counting-house : 
It is a slavery you are now released from. 

Char. 1 understand you ; sir Stephen has no 
further commands for me. I will go to him and 
deliver up my trust. \going 

Fred. Have patience for a moment. — Do you 
guess his reasons for this hasty measure ? 

Char. What care I for his reasons, when I 
know they cannot touch my honour ! 

Fred. Oh, Charles, my heart is penetrated with 
your situation ; what will become of those be- 
loved objects ? — 

Char. Why, what becomes of all the objects 
misery lays low ? they shrink from sight, and 
are forgotten. — You know, I will not hear you 
on this subject ; 'twas not with my consent you 
ever knew there were such objects in existence. 

Fred. I own it; but in this extremity me- 
a2 



6 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

thinks you might relax a little from that rigid 
honour. 

Char. Never ; but, as the body of a man is 
braced by winter, so is my resolution by adver- 
sity. On this point only we can differ. Why 
will my friend persist in urging it ? 

Fred. I have done. You have your way. 

Char. Then, with your leave, I'll go to your 
father. 

Fred. Hold ! Here comes one that supersedes 
all other visiters — old Sheva, the rich Jew, the 
merest muckworm in the city of London : How 
the old Hebrew casts about for prodigals to 
snap at !— I'll throw him out a bait for sport. 

Char. No, let him pass : what sport can his 
infirmities afford ? 

enter sheva. 

Sheva. The good day to you, my young mas- 
ter ! How is it with your health, I pray ? Is 
your fader, sir Stephen Bertram, and my very 
good patron, to be spoken with ? 

Fred. Yes, yes, he is at home, and to be spo- 
ken with, under Some precaution, Sheva: if you 
bring him money you would be welcome. 

Sheva. Ah ! that is very goot. Monies is 
welcome every where. 

Fred. Pass on, pass on ! no more apologies—- 
Good man of money, save your breath to count 
your guineas. 

Sheva. Ah ! dat is goot, very goot. \€xU 

Fred. That fellow would not let his shadow 
fall upon the earth, if he could help it. 

Char. You are too hard upon him. The thing 
is courteous. 



Act I] THE JEW. 7 

Fred. Hang him ! His carcase and its cover- 
ing would not coin into a ducat, yet he is a 
moving mine of wealth. 

Char. You see these characters with indigna- 
tion : I contemplate them with pity. I have a 
fellow-feeling for poor Sheva : he is as much 
in poverty as I am, only it is poverty of ano- 
ther species : He wants what he has, I have 
nothing, and want every thing. Misers are not 
unuseful members of the community ; they act 
like dams to rivers, hold up the stream that else 
would run to waste, and make deep water where 
there would be shallows. 

Fred. I recollect you was his rescuer ; I did 
not know you were his advocate. 

Char. 'Tis true I snatched him out of jeo- 
pardy. My countrymen, with all their natural 
humanity, have no objection to the hustling of 
a Jew. The poor old creature was most roughly 
handled, 

Fred. What was the cause ? 

Char. I never asked the cause. There was 
a hundred upon one ; that was cause enough 
for me to make myself a second to the party 
overmatched.— I got a few hard knocks, but I 
brought off my man. 

Fred. The synagogue should canonize you 
for the deed. 

enter sheva — charles retires. 

Sheva. Aha ! there is no business to be done : 
there is no talking to your fader. He is not 
just now in the sweetest of all possible tempers 
—any thing, Mr. Bertram, wanted in my way ? 

Fred, Yes, Sheva, there is enough wanted in 



8 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

your way, but I doubt it is not in your will to 
do it. 

Sheva. I never spare my pains, when business 
is going : be it ever such a trifle I am thankful. 
Every little helps a poor man like me. 

Fred. You speak of your spirit, I suppose, 
when you call yourself a poor man. All the 
world knows you roll in riches. 

Sheva. The world ! The world knows no 
great deal of me. I live sparingly and labour 
hard, therefore I am called a miser — I cannot 
help it— an uncharitable dog — I must endure it 
—a bloodsucker, an extortioner, a Shylock — 
hard names, Mr. Frederic, but what can a poor 
Jew say in return, if a christian chuses to abuse 
him ? 

Fred. Say nothing, but spend your money 
like a christian. 

Sheva. We have no abiding place on earth, 
no country, no home : every body rails at us, 
every body flouts us, every body points us out 
for their maygame and their mockery. Hard 
dealings for a poor stray sheep of the scattered 
flock of Abraham 1 How can you expect us 
to show kindness, when we receive none ? 

Char, (^advancing) That is true, friend Sheva, 
I can witness ; I am sorry to say, there is too 
much justice in your complaint. 

Sheva. Bless this goot light ! I did not see 
you — 'tis my very goot friend, Mr. Ratcliffe, as I 
live. — Give me your pardon, I pray you, sir, 
give me your pardon : I should be sorry to say 
in your hearing, that there is no charity for the 
poor Jews. Truly, sir, I am under very great 
obligations to you for your generous protection 



Act I] THE JEW. 9 

t'other nig:ht, when I was mobbed and maltreat- 
ed ; and, for aught I can tell, should have been 
massacred, had not you stood in my defence. 
Truly, sir, I bear it very thankfully in my re- 
membrance ; truly I do, yes, truly. 

Fred. Leave me with him, Charles ; 1*11 hold 
iiim in discourse whilst you go to my father. 

\exit Charles 

Sheva. Oh ! it was goot deed, very goot deed, 
to save a poor Jew from a pitiless mob, and I 

am very grateful to you, worthy Mr. Ah ! 

the gentleman is gone away : that is another 
thing. 

Fred. It is so, but your gratitude need not go 
away at the same time ! you are not bound to 
make good the proverb — " Out of sight, out of 
mind.'* 

Sheva. No, no, no ; I am very much obliged 
to him, not only for my life, but for the monies 
and the valuables I had about me ; I had been 
hustled out of them all, but for him. 

Fred. Well, then, having so much gratitude 
for his favours, you have now an opportunity 
of making some return to him. 

Sheva. Yes, yes, and I do make him a return 
of my thanks and goot wishes very heartily. 
What can a poor Jew say more ? I do wish him 
all goot things, and give him all goot words. 

Fred. Good words, indeed ! What are they 
to a man who is cast naked upon the wide world 
with a widowed mother and a defenceless sister, 
who look up to him for their support ? 

Sheva. Good lack, good lack ! I thought he 
was in occupations in your fader's counting- 
house. 



10 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

Fred. He was ; and, from his scanty pittance, 
piously supported these poor destitutes : that 
source is now stopped, and, as you, when in 
the midst of rioters, was in want of a protector, 
so is he, in the midst of his misfortunes, in want 
of some kind friend to rescue him. 

Sheva. Oh dear 1 oh dear ! this world is full 
of sadness and of sorrow ; miseries upon mise- 
ries ! unfortunates by hundreds and by thous- 
ands, and poor Sheva has but two weak eyes to 
find tears for them all. 

Fred. Come, come, Sheva, pity will not feed 
the hungry, nor clothe the naked. Ratcliffe is 
the friend of my heart : I am helpless in my- 
self; my father, though just, is austere in the 
extreme ; I dare not resort to him for money, 
nor can I turn my thoughts to any other quar- 
ter for the loan of a small sum in this extremity, 
except to you. — So, let me have your answer. 

Sheva. Yes, yes, but my answer will not 
please you without the monies: I shall be a 
Jewish dog, a baboon, an imp of Beelzebub, if I 
don't find the monies ; and when my monies is 
all gone, what shall I be then ? An ass, a fool, 
a jack-a-dandy !— ^Oh dear ! oh dear ! Well, 
there must be conditions, look you. 

Fred. To be sure : security twice secured ; 
premium and interest, and bond and judgment 
into the bargain : only enable me to preserve 
my friend, give me that transport, and I care 
not what I pay for it. 

Sheva. Mercy on her heart ! what haste and 
hurry you are in ! How much did you want ? 
One hundred pounds, did you say ? 

Fred. More than one, more than one. 



Act I] THE JEW. 11 

Sheva. Ah, poor Sheva ! More than one hun- 
dred pounds ! What ! so much as two hun- 
dred ? 'tis a great deal of monies. 

Fred. Come, friend Sheva, at one word — three 
hundred pounds. 

Sheva. Mercies defend me, what a sum ! 

Fred. Accommodate me with three hundred 
pounds ; make your own terms ! consult your 
conscience in the bargain, and I will say you 
are a good fellow. Oh ! Sheva, did you but 
know the luxury of relieving honour, innocence, 
and beauty from distress ! 

Sheva. Oh ! 'tis great luxury I dare say, else 
you would not buy it at so high a price. Well, 
well, well ! I have thought a little, and if you 
will come to my poor cabin in Duke's Place, 
you shall have the monies. 

Fred. Well said, my gallant Sheva ! Shall I 
bring a bond with me to fill up ? 

Sheva. No, no, no : we have all those mat- 
ters in my shop. 

Fred. I don't doubt it— All the apparatus of 
an usurer. — {aside) Farewell, Sheva I be ready 
with your instruments, I care not what they are : 
only let me have the money, and you may pro- 
ceed to dissection as soon after as you please. 

\_exit 

Sheva. Heigho ! I cannot chuse but weep — - 
Sheva, thou art a fool — Three hundred pounds 
by the day, how much is that in the year !— Oh 
dear, oh dear ! I shall be ruined, starved, wast- 
ed to a shred. Bowels, you shall pinch for this : 
I'll not eat flesh this fortnight : I'll feed upon 
the steam of an alderman's kitchen, as I put 
my nose down his area.— Well, well I but soft, 



12 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

a word, friend Sheva ! Art thou not rich ! mon- 
strous rich ? abominably rich ? and yet thou livest 
on a crust — belt so ! thou dost stint thy appetites, 
to pamper thine affections ; thou dost make thy- 
self to live in poverty, that the poor may live in 
plenty. 

enter charles ratcliffe, not noticing the Jew. 

Char. Unfeeling, heartless man, I've done 
with you. I'll dig, beg, perish, rather than sub- 
mit to such unnatural terms — I may remain : 
my mother and my sister must be banished to 
a distance.— Why, this Jew, this usurer, this 
enemy to our faith, whose heart is in his bags, 
would not have used me thus — I'll question 
him — Sheva ! 

Sheva. What is your pleasure ? 

Char. I do not know the word. 

Sheva. What is your will, then ? speak it. 

Char. Sheva !— you have been a son — you 
had a mother — dost remember her ? 

Sheva, Goot lack, goot lack ! do I remember 
her ? — 

Char. Didst love her, cherish her, support 
her ? 

Sheva. Ah me ! ah me ! it is as much as my 
poor heart will bear, to think of hei*^ — I would 
have died for my moder. 

Char. Thou hast affections, feelings, chari- 
ties*— 

Sheva. I am a man, sir, call me bow you 
please. 

Char. I'll call you christian, then, and this 
proud merchant Jew. 

Sheva. I shall not thank you for that compli- 
ment. 



Act I] THE JEW. IJ 

Char. And hadst thou not a sister too ? 

Sheva. No, no sister, no broder, no son, no 
daughter ; I am a solitary being, a waif on the 
world's wide common. 

Char. And thou hast hoarded wealth, till 
thou art sick with gold, even to plethory : thy 
bags run over with the spoils of usury, thy veins 
are glutted with the blood of prodigals and 
gamesters. 

Sheva. I have enough ; something perhaps 
to spare. 

Char. And I have nothing, nothing to spare 
but miseries, with which my measure overflows 
—by heaven, it racks my soul, to think that 
those beloved sufferers should want, and this 
thing so abound. — (^aside) Now, Sheva, now, if 
you and I were out of sight of man, benighted 
in some desert, wild as my thoughts, naked as 
my fortune, should you not tremble ? 

Sheva. What should I tremble for ? — You 
could not harm a poor defenceless aged man. 

Char. Indeed, indeed I could not harm you, 
Sheva, whilst I retain my senses. 

Sheva. Sorrow disturbs them : yes, yes, it is 
sorrow. Ah me, ah me ! poor Sheva in his 
time has been driven mad with sorrow.— *Tis a 
hard world. 

Char. Sir, I have done you wrong — you pity 
me, I'm sure you do : those tones could never 
proceed but from a feeling heart. 

Sheva. Try me, touch me ; I am not made of 
iTiarble. I could say something ; it is in my 
thoughts ; but no, I will not say it here : this is 
the house of trade j that is not to my purpose 
— come home with me, so please you — 'tis but a 
B 



14 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

little walk, and you shall see what I have shown 
to no man, Sheva's real heart — I do not carry it 
in my hand— come, I pray you, come along. 

[exeunt 



ACT II. 

SCENE I — MRS. ratcliffe's lodgings. 

enter eliza ratcliffe. 

Eliza. Oh happy me ! possessed of all my 
heart delights in ; and miserable me, for having 
ruined what I love. Alas ! poor Bertram, fond 
to desperation, generous to thy destruction ! — 
Why then did I marry ? Wherefore did I suf- 
fer him to be the victim of fatal passion ? What 
power perverted understanding, heart, humani- 
ty ? What power, but that, which can do all 
things, good or ill, make virtue, and unmake it, 
animate our courage, and extinguish it ? — Love 
is at once my crime and my excuse. Good 
Heavens ! my mother ! 

enter mrs. ratcliffe — eliza takes her hand and 
kisses it. 

Mrs. R. Eliza ; child ! what means this more 
than usual agitation ? 

Eliza. Is it then more than usual ? 
Mrs. R. You weep— 



Act II] THE JEW. 15 

Eliza. Do I ? 'Tis natural when I contem- 
plate a face so dear and so decayed, furrowed 
with cares and sorrows for my sake. — Ah ! my 
dear mother, you have loved me much too well. 

Mrs. R, My darling, can that be, seeing I 
love your brother also ? You share my heart 
between you. 

Eliza. Give all to him ; he has deserved it 
better. 

Mrs. R. Heaven bless him to the extent of 
his deservings ! On him rests all our hope ; to 
him we cling as to the last dear relic of our 
wrecked nobility. But he's a man, Eliza, and 
endowed with strength and fortitude to strug- 
gle in the storm ; we are weak helpless women, 
and can do no more than suffer and submit. 

Eliza. True, but there is a part allotted to 
the weakest, even to me ; an humble one in- 
deed, and easily performed, since nothing is 
required but to obey, to love you, and to honour 
you. 

Mrs. R. And you have done it faithfully, my 
child. 

Eliza. You think so, my dear mother, but 
your praise is my reproach.— Oh ! had I now 
a crime upon my conscience, and should kneel 
thus, and beg for pardon at your feet, what 
would you say ? 

Mrs. R. Astonishment might keep me silent 
for a while, but my first words would be to pity 
and forgive you. 

Eliza. That I can err, this guilty hand will 
witness. — Well may you start. That hand is 
Bertram's j and that ring, pledged at the altar, 



16 THE JEW, [Cumberland 

was put by him this very morning — I am Ber- 
tram's wife. 

Mrs. R. Rise, quit this supplicating posture, 
till you find yourself in presence of some person 
less disposed to pardon you than I am. 

Eliza. How mild is that rebuke 1 how mer- 
ciful ! Your eye, like nature's, penetrates my 
heart ; you see it weak, as woman's resolu- 
tion is. 

Mrs. JR. I see myself reflected in my child ; 
justice demands a censure : conscious recollec- 
tion checks me from pronouncing it : but you 
have a brother, whose high soaring spirit will 
not brook clandestine marriages : your husband 
has a father of another spirit, as I fear. Alas I 
my child, betwixt the lofty and the low, you 
must steer well to keep a steady course. 

Eliza. I see my danger; and though Ber- 
tram's ardour painted it in fainter colours than 
its true complexion may demand, yet I should 
hope the nature of a father cannot be so stem 
as never to forgive a choice that disappoints, 
but, let me hope, does not disgrace him. 

Mrs. R. The name of Ratcliffe cannot. A 
daughter of your house, in better days, would 
hardly have advanced his knighthood higher 
than her footcloth. 

Eliza. Ay, madam, but the pride of birth 
does but add stings to poverty. We must for- 
get those days. 

Mrs. R. Your father did not. 

Eliza. Ah, my father I— • 

Mrs. R. Your brother never will 



Act II] THE JEW. 17 

Eliza. Yet he is humble for our sakes. Think 
what he does. Good Heavens, my husband's 
father's clerk ! Dear madam, tell me why he did 
not rather go, where his courage called him, 
where his person would have graced the colours 
that he carried. 

Mrs. R. Child, child, what colours ? Surely 
you forget the interdiction of a father barred 
him from that service. 

Eliza. Alas, alas ! 

Mrs. R. The bread would choke him, that 
he earned under a father's curse. 

Eliza. We have bled for our opinions, and 
we have starved for them ; the axe and sword 
and poverty have made sad havoc with our 
family : 'tis time we were at peace. The world 
is now before us : on this hour depends the fate 
of all perhaps that are to come. Frederic is 
with his father : he is determined to avow his 
marriage, and to meet the consequences. I 
never saw sir Stephen, and have nothing but 
conjecture to direct me ; I tremble for the event. 

Mrs. R. 'Tis a distressful interim ; and it is 
now the hour when I expect your brother. 

Eliza. Oh ! that is worse than all ; for pity's 
sake hide me from him till Frederic returns : 
let me retire. 

Mrs. R. Come then, my child ! I know not 
what it is, but something whispers me that all 
will yet be well. 

Eliza. Ten thousand blessing on you for that 
cheering hope : how my heart bounds to em- 
brace it ! *Tis an auspicious omen, and I hail 
it like the voice of inspiration. S exeunt 

B 2 



13 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

SCENE ii"^Sheva*s house, 

enter dorcas. 

Dorcas. Why, Jabal ? I say, Jabal ? Where 
are you, sluggard ? 

enter jabal. 

Jabal. Here am I, mother Dorcas ! Oh ! 
what a starving star was I born under, to be the 
rich Jew's poor servant. No rest, no peace, 
whilst you are awake. Lud-a-mercy ! If you 
did but know how your pipe echoes in this 
empty house ! — 

Dorcas. Child I child ! you must not think 
to be idle here. 

Jabal. What would you have me do ? Brush 
the bare walls for a breakfast ? A spider could 
not make a meal upon them. 

Dorcas. I warrant thou hast filled thy belly, 
cormorant. 

Jabal. I have not had a bellyful since I be- 
longed to you. You take care there shall be no 
fire in the kitchen ; master provides no prog upon 
the shelf; so, between you both, I have plenty 
of nothing but cold and hunger. 

Dorcas. Hunger indeed I How should thy 
stomach ever be filled, when there is no bottom 
to it ? 'tis like the Dead Sea, fathomless. 

Jabal. 'Tis like the Dead Sea so far, that nei- 
ther fish nor flesh are to be found within it. 

Dorcas. Sirrah ! you have a better master than 
you think for. It is unknown the charities he 
gives away. 



Act II] THE JEW. ^ 19 

Jabal. You're right, it is unknown ; at least 
I never found the secret out. If it is charity to 
keep an empty cupboard he has that to boast of; 
the very rats would run away from such a ca- 
terer. If it is charity to clothe the naked, here 
is a sample of it ; examine this old drab ; you 
may count the threads without spectacles ; a 
spider's web is a warm blanket to it. If it is 
charity to feed the hungry, I have an empty 
stomach at his service, to which his charity at 
this present moment would be very seasonable. 

Dorcas. You must mortify your carnal appe- 
tites : how often shall I teach you that lesson ? 

Jabal. Every time I set eyes upon you. 

Dorcas. Hav'n't you the credit of belonging to 
one of the richest men in the city of London ? 

Jabal. I wish I was turnspit to the poorest 
cook's shop instead. Oh ! if my master had 
but fixed his abode at Pye Corner, or Pudding 
Lane, or Fish street Hill, or any of those savou- 
ry places ? What am I the fatter for the empty 
dignity of Duke's Place ? I had rather be a 
miser's heir than a miser's servant. 

Dorcas. And who knows what may happen ? 
Master has not a relation I ever heard of in the 
universal world. 

Jabal. No, he has starved them all out. A 
cameleon could not live with him ; he would 
grudge him even the air he feeds on. 

Dorcas. For shame, slanderer ! His good 
deeds will shine out in time. 

Jabal. I sha'n't stand in their light ; they may 
shine through me, for I am grown transparent 
in his service. — Had not he like to have been 



20 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

torn to pieces, t'other day, by the mob, for 
whipping a starved cat out of his area ? 

Dorcas. And whose fault was that but thine, 
ungracious boy, for putting it there ? I am sure 
I have cause to bless the gentleman that saved 
him.— But, hush I here comes my good master; 
and, as I live, the very gentleman with him— 
Ah ! then I guess what is going forward. 

enter sheva and charles ratcliffe. 

Sheva. So, so, so ! What's here to do with 
you ? Why are you not both at your work ? — 
Dorcas, a cup of cold water — I am very thirsty. 

[^exit Dorcas 

Jabal. Are you not rather hungry too, sir ? 

Sheva. Hold your tongue, puppy ! Get about 
your business ; and, here I take my hat, clean 
it carefully ; but mind you do not brush it— that 
will wear off" the nap. 

Jabal. The nap indeed ! There is no shelter 
for a flea. \exit 

Sheva. Aha ! I am tired. I beg your pardon, 
Mr. Ratcliffe; I am an old man. Sit you down, 
I pray you, sit you down, and we will talk a 
little. {Dorcas briiigs a glass of water) So, so, 
that is right. Water is goot. — Fie upon you, 
Dorcas ? why do you not offer the glass to my 
guest before me ? 

Dorcas. Lord love him ! I'd give him wine, 
if I had it. 

Sheva. No, no, it is goot water, it is better 
than wine : wine is heating, water is cooling ; 
wine costs monies, water comes for nothing — 
your good health, sir^— Oh ! 'tis delicious, it is 
satisfying : go your ways, Dorcas, go your 
ways. — {exit Dorcas) Sir, I have nothing to ask 



Act II] THE JEW. 21 

you to but that water, which you would not 
drink : 'twas goot water, notwithstanding.— Ah I 
Mr. Ratcliffe, I must be very saving now : I 
must pinch close. 

Char. For what ? are you not rich enough to 
allow yourself the common comforts of life ? 

Sheva, Oh, yes, oh, yes ! I am rich to be sure 
—mercy on me, what a world of monies should I 
now have, if I had no pity in my heart ! 

Char. But if you are so charitable to others, 
why then can you not spare a little to yourself? 

Sheva. Because I am angry with myself for 
being such a baby, a child, a chicken. Your 
people do not love me, what business have I to 
love your people ? I am a Jew ; my fathers, up 
to Abraham, all were Jews — merciless mankind, 
how you have persecuted them ! my family is 
all gone, it is extinct, my very name will vanish 
out of memory when I am dead — I pray you 
pardon me ! I'm very old, and apt to weep ; I 
pray you pardon me. 

Char. I am more disposed to subscribe to 
your tears, than to find fault with them. 

Sheva. Well, well, well ! 'tis natural for me 
to weep, when I reflect upon their sufferings and 
my own.»— Sir, you shall know — but I won't tell 
you my sad story : you are young and tender- 
hearted—it is all written down — you shall find 
it with my papers at my death. 

Char. Sir ! At your death ! 

Sheva. Yes, sure, I must die some time or 
other :— -though you have saved my life once, 
you cannot save it always. I did tell you, Mr. 
Ratcliffe, I would show you my heart. Sir, it 
is a heart to do you all possible good whilst I 



22 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

live, and to pay you the debt of gratitude when 
I die. 

enter jabal. 

Jabal. A gentleman, who says his name is 
Bertram, waits to speak with you — I fancy he 
comes to borrow money, for he looks wond'rous 
melancholy. 

Sheva. Hold your tongue, knave ; what is it 
to you what he comes for ? 

Jabal. I am sure he does not come for dinner, 
for he has not brought it with him. 

Sheva. I pray you, Mr. Ratcliffe, pass out 
that way. I would not have you meet.— Admit 
Mr. Bertram. \_exeunt Jabal and Charles 

enter frederic. 

You are welcome, Mr. Bertram : our business 
may quickly be despatched. You want three 
hundred pounds— I have made shift to scrape 
that sum together, and it is ready for you. 

Fred. Alas, Sheva ! since last I saw you I am 
so totally undone, that it would now be robbery 
to take your money.— -My father has expelled 
me from his house. 

Sheva. Why ? for what cause ? 

Fred. I have married — 

Sheva. Well, that is natural enough. 

Fred. Married without his knowledge— 

Sheva. So did he without yours. What be- 
sides ? 

Fred. Married a wife without a farthing. 

Sheva. Ah ! that is very silly, I must say. 

Fred. You could not say so, did you know 
the lady= 



Act II] THE JEW. 23 

Sheva. That may be, but I do not know the 
lady : you have not named her to me. 

Fred. The sister of Charles Ratcliffe. 

Sheva. Ah ! to miss Ratcliffe ? Is it so ? And 
she is goot and lovely, but she has no monies ; 
and that has made your fader very angry with 
you? 

Fred. Furious, irreconcileable. 

Sheva. Why, truly, monies is a goot thing, 
and your fader is not the only man in England 
that does think so. I confess I'm very much 
of his mind in respect of monies. 

Fred. Are you ? then keep your money, and 
good morning to you. 

Sheva. Hold, hold, be not so hasty ! If I do 
love my monies, it may be because I have it in 
my power to tender them to you. 

Fred. But I have said, I never can repay you, 
whilst you are in this world. 

Sheva. Perhaps I shall be content to be re- 
paid when I am out of it — I believe I have a 
pretty many post obits of that sort upon the file. 

Fred. I do not rightly understand you. 

Sheva. Then pray you have a little patience 
till I'm better understood. — Sir Stephen had a 
a match for you in view ? 

Fred. He had. 

Sheva. What was the lady's fortune I 

Fred. Ten thousand pounds. 

Sheva. That's a goot round sum ; but you 
did not love her, and you do love your wife. 

Fred. As dearly as you love your money. 

Sheva. A little better, we will hope, for I do 
lend my monies to my friend. — For instance, 
take these bills, three hundred pounds — what 



24 THE JEW [Cumberland 

ails you ?— they are goot bills, they are bank— ■ 
Oh ! that I had a sack full of them 1— come, 
come, I pray you, take them. They will hire 
you very pretty lodging, and you will be very 
happy with your pretty wife — I pray you take 
them. — Why will you be so hard with a poor 
Jew, as to refuse him a goot bargain, when you 
know he loves to lay his monies out to profit 
and advantage ? 

Fred. Are you in earnest ? You astonish me. 

Sheva. I am a little astonished too, for I did 
never see a man so backward to take money : 
you are not like your fader. I am afraid you 
are a little proud. 

Fred. You shall not say so : I accept your 
generous tender. 

Sheva. I wish it was ten thousand pounds, 
then your good fader would be well content. 

Fred. Yes, of two equal fortunes, I believe 
he would be good enough to let me take my 
choice. 

Sheva. Oh ! that is very kind ; he would give 
you the preference when he had none himself. 

Fred. Just so ; but what acknowledgment 
shall I give you for these bills ? 

Sheva. None, none ; I do acknowledge them 
myself with very great pleasures in serving you, 
and no small pains in parting from them. I 
pray you make yourself and pretty wife com- 
fortable with the monies, and I will comfort 
myself as well as I can without them. I must 
go in about sonie business— I pray you pardon 
my unpoliteness. 

Fred. No apology : I am gone — farewell^ 
Sheva ! thou a miser ! thou art a prince, [ej^if 



Act II] THE JEW, 25 

Sheva. Jabal ! open the door. 
enter 3 ABAL. 

Jabal. 'Tis done, sir. 

Sheva. How now, sirrah 1 You was listening 
at the key-hole. 

Jabal. Not I, sir ; I was only oiling the 
lock : You love to have your bolts slip easily. 

Sheva. You are a jackanapes ; I shall slip 
you out of my door by and bye. \jexU 

Jabal. You may slip me through the crack 
of it, if I stay much longer with you. 

enter dorcas behind. 

But to be sure I did listen, that is the truth of 
it. Hip ! Holloa ! Mother Dorcas ! 
(^Dorcas comes forward.^ 
O I I am glad you are in the way. Lend me 
your one ear, and I'll tell you a secret. 

Dorcas. Let us hear it, Jabal, I love a secret— 

Jabal. I have made a discovery. 

Dorcas. I have no objection to a discovery. 
Out with it. 

Jabal. Mother Dorcas, I have discovered that 
our old master is no more a miser than I am. 

Dorcas. I told you so. 

Jabal. So you did, but that's not all. I have 
found out, besides, that he is no Hebrew, no 
more a Jew than Julius Caesar ; for to my cer- 
tain knowledge he gives away his money by 
handfuls to the consumers of hog's flesh. 

Dorcas. He is merciful to all mankind. 

Jabal. Yes, and to all sheep and oxen, lambs 
and calves, for he will not suffer us to touch a 
morsel of their flesh. Now, because he lives 
C 



25 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

without food, that's no reason I should starve 
for want of eating.— Oh, mother Dorcas ! 'tis 
untold what terrible and abominable temptations 
I struggle with. 

Dorcas. How are you tempted, child ? Tell 
me, what is it that moves you ? 

Jabal. Why, 'tis the devil himself, in the 
shape of a Bologna sausage : Gracious ! how 
my mouth did water, as I saw a string of them 
dangling from the pent-house of an oilman's 
shop ! the fellow would have persuaded me, 
they were made of asses' flesh. — Oh ! if I could 
have believed him. 

Dorcas. Oh ! horrible ! You must not touch 
the unclean beast. 

Jabal. No, to be sure ; our people have never 
tasted bacon, since they came out of the land of 
Ham. 

Dorcas. Jabal, Jabal, what an escape you have 
had! 

Jabal. So had the sausages, for my teeth quiv- 
ered to be at them. 

Dorcas. Come, my good lad, thou shalt be 
recompensed for thy self-denial : I have an &^^ 
for thee in the kitchen. 

Jabal. I hope it is an ostrich's, for I am mor- 
tally sharp set — Oh, mother, I have a thought 
in my head — I will give old master warning, 
and seek my fortune elsewhere. 

Dorcas. Where will you seek it ? 

Jabal. Where there is plenty of prog, be as- 
sured — I will go upon the stage, and turn actor r 
there is a great many eating parts, and I hope 
to fill them all. I was treated t'other night 
to a play, when there was a notable fine leg of 



Act II] THE JEW. 27 

lamb served up. — Oh, how I did long to be the 
attorney ! — I won't say, so many good things 
would have come out of my mouth, but a pretty 
many more would have gone into it. 

Dorcas. How you ramble, sirrah ! what me- 
grims you have in your head ! 

Jabal. Emptiness breeds them.— Mercy, how 
glad I should be, to see it written down in my 
part— -ew^er Jabal^ nvith a roast chicken ! 

Dorcas. Come, come, homelier fare must 
content you.— "-Let us light the lamp, and boil 
our c^%^. 

Jabal. An egg! what! is it between us ? One 
c^%^ and two to eat it ! 

Dorcas. Well, I care not if I spend sixpence 
for a treat, so thou wilt be sociable and merry 
when it is over. 

Jabal. Agreed !— only give me good cheer 
for my dinner, and we will have good humour 
for the desert. Oh, that leg of lamb, that leg 
of lamb ! [exeunt 



ACT III. 

SCENE I MRS. RATCLIFFE*S lodgiugS, 

enter mrs. ratcliffe and Frederic. 

Fred. Can you forgive me ? Has my lovely 
advocate sued out my pardon, and may I now 
invoke a blessing on my love and me ? 

Mrs. R. Heaven in its bounty bless you 
both !•— May all good fortune follow you, all 



28 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

comforts light upon you, and love and happi- 
ness ever subsist between you ! 

Fred. Such piety can never pray in vain.— 
Where is Eliza ? 

Mrs, R. She does not know you are here : — 
Shall I call her ? 

Fred. Not yet. — I have a little sum, and you 
must be our banker: Charles is too proud to 
touch it : his spirit is of a pitch too high to 
stoop to worldly matters. We have been warm 
and cordial friends, how we may fare as bro- 
thers. Heaven only knows : I have some fears. 
. Mrs. R. Eliza is impressed with the same 
apprehensions ; but if sir Stephen acquiesces, 
all will be well. I hope this is a token of his 
forgiveness. 

Fred. 'Twill serve to set us out. I have pro- 
vided lodgings more commodious ; I hope you 
will permit Eliza to remove ; and I make fur- 
ther suit, that you will have the goodness to 
accompany her. 

Mrs. R. Well ; but you do not answer to my 
question. — Hav'n't you seen your father ? 

Fred. I have seen him. 

Mrs. R. And explained to him 

Fred. I have. 

Mrs. R. Well, what says he ? 

Fred. If he had said what would have done 
him honour, and given ease to my Eliza's mother, 
I should not have waited for your question. — 
May I now see Eliza ? There is a cloud on my 
heart also, which only her bright presence can 
dispel. 

Mrs. R. Ah, sir ! she can be only bright 
hence-forward by reflection; her sunshine must 



Act III] THE JEW. 29 

be caught from yours.— —However, I will send 
her to you. [exir 

Fred. Oh that my father was now standing 
by me to behold her, and confess how irresista- 
ble she is ! — 

enter eliza. 

Oh my soul's joy, my treasure, my Eliza I 

{^embracing her) 

Eliza. Frederic, what tidings ? 

Fred. None but of love, increasing with each 
moment ; glowing with every beam that those 
soft eyes diffuse, and heightened into rapture 
by those charms, those graces, that each look, 
word, and motion spread around you. 

Eliza, These are fond flattering words ; but 
Where's the consolation that you would have 
given me, had you brought back a pardon from 
your father ? This ardour only proves, that 
you had too much love, and I too little generosity. 

Fred. Take courage, Eliza ! I have not lost the 
field, only prolonged the tight; I have but skirm- 
ished with him yet; he has not felt my strength. 
Let me set you in sight, and 

Eliza. Oh ! you rash man, why did you take 
such pains to be undone ? Why lull me into 
dreams of happiness, till I forgot that I was 
poor and wretched ! — Deceiver of yourself and 
me, I thought we trod on flowers, and never 
spied the precipice before us. 

Fred. I see no precipice— I fear none. 

Eliza. Hear me, my Frederic, let love stand 
off a while, and give your ear to reason. — 'Tis 
fit, that you should know the heart, for wjiich 
c 2 



30 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

you have risked so much. — Our marriage was 
a rash one ; be that my witness how I loved 
you. But, though I wanted firmness to oppose 
your love, I am not void of courage to prevent 
your ruin. — Have patience ! hear me out — Sir 
Stephen Bertram wished for money ; I have 
none to give him ; the fortune of my house is 
crushed, the spirit yet survives, even in me, the 
weakest, and, perhaps, the humblest of the 
name : but I resist contempt, and, if he spurns 
my poverty, I have a sure resource, that shall 
compel him to applaud my spirit. 

Fred. What do you mean ? Your looks, your 
language terrify me. 

Eliza. Oh ! I have loved you far too well to 
trifle. I will convince the world 'twas not by 
interest my heart was gained ; 'twas not to keep 
off want, to live at ease, and make the noble 
relics of my family retainers of his charity, I 
married to Sir Stephen Bertram's son ; it was 
with worthier, purer views, to share his thoughts, 
unite my heart to his, and make his happiness 
my own. These sentiments are my inheritance ; 
if these will not suffice for his ambition, they 
will teach me how to act becoming of my birth, 
under the imputation of his son's seducer. 

Fred. Hence with that word ! It is a profa- 
nation to your lips. Was ever man so blest, so 
honoured, so exalted, as I am ! — If pride will 
not see it, if avarice cannot feel it, is that a rea- 
son why humility and gratitude should not be 
blest in the enjoyment of it? 

enter mRS. ratcliffe. 

Mrs. R. Eliza, your brother is come. 



Act III] THE JEW. 31 

Eliza. Leave me, I beseech you, Frederic, 
leave me ! let me confer with him alone ; there's 
no way else to pacify him. 

Mrs. R. Come, let us yield to her request : 
I do believe she's right. 

[^exeunt Mrs. Ratcliffe and Frederic. 

enter Charles. 

Char. Alone ! How is my dear Eliza ? You 
look pale, my love — Have you been out, or are 
you going out ? Has any thing occurred ? You 
are more dressed than usual. 

Eliza. Am I ? No, sure ; you have seen this 
dress before. I have nothing new. 

Char. I can't say quite as much, for I have a 
new livelihood to seek. Sir Stephen has dis- 
carded me. 

Eliza. Oh ! fie upon him I 

Char. No, no 1 the man is worldly wise, no 
more. He has a son, Eliza, and he has found 
out I have a portionless sister. Who can blame 
him ? — To confute suspicion, and put this care- 
ful merchant at his ease, we will cut short the 
question and retire from London. 

Eliza. Where must we go ? 

Char. Far enough off for his repose, be sure. 
— I am sorry on account of Frederic, for I love 
him ; — but he has been too frequent in his visits 
here, and he knows I think so. — He will be 
happier for our parting. 

Eliza. I doubt that—- is your resolution taken ? 

Char. Irrecoverable — where is my mother ? 

Eliza. Stay ! hear your sister first. 

Char. What ails you ? what is coming ? why 
do you tremble ? 



32 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

Mliza. Oh, Charles ! 

{weefis^ and hides her face) 

Char. What is it ? Speak. 

Eliza. I am the wife of Frederic. 

Char. Heaven and good angels forbid it ! 

Eliza. Heaven and good angels, as I hope, 
have witnessed it. 

Char. Rash girl, you have undone him : torn 
asunder nature's strongest tie— set father against 
son.--.When was the name of Ratcliffe dishon- 
oured until now ? 

Eliza. Charles !«— Brother !— Benefactor !— 
Is there yet a name more tender, an appeal more 
sacred ? Did hard fortune leave me only one 
protector, one dear friend ! and will not he for- 
give me ? — Take me then and hurl me to the 
ground, as one not worth preserving. 

(^throivs herself on his neck) 

Char. Wretched Eliza! did I ever till this 
moment ncieet your embrace with coldness ? 
Have I not loved you, heaven and earth how 
much ! — How then have I deserved to be dis- 
honoured by you, and to have my name stamp- 
ed as the joint seducer of a fond weak youth, 
who will have cause to execrate the hour when 
first he called me friend ? 

Eliza. Strike me not to the heart with your 
reproaches, but in pity hear me : I am not 
lightly-minded, not ignobly taught how to dis- 
tinguish honour, for I am your sister, and have 
a saint, that does not blush to call me daughter : 
she has pronounced my pardon. 

Char. She is all pity : sorrow has melted her 
fond heart to weakness. 

Eliza. And can you find no excuse for mine ? 



Act III] THE JEW. 33 

Char. We'll have no more of this, Eliza. 
There is a weakness lurking at my heart, that 
warns me how I trust myself too far : you have 
made wreck of your own honour, wretched girl ; 
I may still rescue mine. \jxit 

enter frederic and mrs. ratcliffe. 

Mrs. R. Eliza ! — my dear child ! how has it 
passed ? 

Fred. It is too plain how it has passed — she 
is in tears, pale and trembling — by my soul, it 
is too much ! — Why did I leave you to his keen 
reproaches ? By Heavens, I'll follow, and 

Eliza. Pray stay. — Let me persuade you. 
Give me your arm — lead me into the other 
room ; I shall recover there, if you will be pa- 
tient, [exeunt 

SCENE II — sir Stephen Bertrarn's house. 

enter sir Stephen Bertram and saunders. 

Sir S. Well, Saunders, what news have you 
been able to collect of my undutiful son ? 

Saun. I have not seen Mr. Bertram, but I am 
told he has settled himself in very handsome 
lodgings, and is gone to remove his lady to them. 

Sir S. His lady, do you call her ? Can you 
find no fitter term ? Where should he get the 
means to settle ? he was not furnished with them 
by me ; who else will do it ? If he attempts to 
raise money on expectancies, be it at their peril 
who are fools enough to trust him : no prudent 
man will be his bubble. — If I were sure that was 



34 'rtlE JEW. [Cumberland 

his practice, I should hold it a matter of con- 
science to advertise against his debts. 

Saun. Perhaps there may be some persons in 
the world, who think you will not always hold 
out against an only son. 

Sir S. Then let those persons smart for their 
opinion : — they little know the feelings of an 
injured father ; — they cannot calculate my hopes, 

my disappointments, my regret. He might 

have had a lady with an ample fortune :— ^A wife 
without a shilling is but what avails com- 
plaint ? — Could you learn nothing further, who 
supplies him, who holds him up ? 

Saun. I hear that he had money of your bro- 
ker, Sheva. 

Sir S. That must be false intelligence. He 
will as soon make gold by transmutation as 
wring it from the gripe of that old usurer. No, 
no, Sheva is too wary, too much a Jew, to help 
him with a shilling. 

Saun. Yet I was so informed by his own ser- 
vant, Jabal. 

Sir S. It mocks all belief; it only proves, 
that Sheva, the most inveterate miser in exist- 
ence, has a fellow Jew for his servant, one of the 
completest liars in creation. 

Saun. I am apt to give him credit for the 
fact, notwithstanding. 

Sir S. Then give me leave to say, you have 
more faith than most men living : was I to give 
so much credit, Mr. Saunders, I should soon 
stop. 

Saun. I am not quite so fixed in my persua- 
sion of old Sheva's character as you are. In 
his dealings, all the world knows he is punctili- 



Act III] THE JEW. 5^ 

ously honest ; no man*s character stands higher 
in the alley ; and his servant tells me, though 
he starves himself, he is secretly very charitable 
to others. 

Sir S. Yes, this you may believe, if you are 
disposed to take one Jew's word, for another 
Jew's character : I am obstinate against both ; 
and if he has supplied the money, as I am sure 
it must be on usurious principles, as soon as 
ever I have the old miser in my reach, I will 
wring either the truth from his lips, or the life 
out of his carcase. 

enter sheva. 

Sheva. How does my worthy master ? I am 
your very humble servant, goot sir Stephen 
Bertram. I have a little private business to 
impart to you, with your goot leave, and if your 
leisure serves. 

Sir S. Leave us, if you please. 

\jxit Saunders 

Sheva. Aha ! I am very much fatigued : there 
is great throng and press in the offices at the 
bank, and I am very feeble. 

Sir S. Hold, sir : — Before I welome you with- 
in these doors, or suffer you to sit down in my 
presence, I demand to know, explicitly, and with- 
out prevarication, if you have furnished my son 
with money secretly, and without my leave ? 

Sheva. If 1 do lend, ought I not to lend it in 
secret ? If I do not ask your leave, sir Stephen, 
may I not dispose of my own monies according 
to my own liking ? But if it is a crime, I do 
wish to ask you who is my accuser? that, I 



35 JTHE JEW. [Cumberland 

believe, is justice every where, and in your hap- 
py country I do think it is law likewise. 

Sir S. Very well, sir, you shall have both law 
and justice. The information comes from your 
own servant, Jabal. Can you controvert it ? 

Sheva. I do presume to say, my servant 
ought not to report his master's secrets ; but I 
will not say he has not spoken the truth. 

Sir S. Then you confess the fact — 

Sheva. I humbly think there is no call for that: 
you have the information from my footboy — I 
do not deny it. 

Sir S. And the sum — 

Sheva. I do not talk of the sum, sir Stephen, 
that is not my practice ; neither, under favour, 
is my footboy my cashier. If he be a knave, and 
listen at my keyhole, the more shame his ; I am 
not in the fault. 

Sir S. Not in the fault ! Wretch, miser, usur- 
er ! you never yet let loose a single guinea from 
your gripe, but with a view of doubling it at the 
return. I know what you are. 

Sheva. Indeed I 'tis more than I will say of 
myself. — I pray you, goot sir Stephen, take a 
little time to know my heart, before you rob me 
of my reputation. I am a Jew, a poor, defence- 
less, aged Jew ; that is enough to make me mi- 
ser, usurer — alas ! I cannot help it. 

Sir S. No matter; you are caught in your 
own trap : I tell you now, my son is ruined, 
disinherited, undone. One consolation is, that 
you have lost your money. 

Sheva. If that be a consolation to you, you 
are very welcome to it. If my monies are lost, 
my motives are not. 



Act III] THE JEW. 37 

Sir S. ril never pay one farthing of his debts ; 
he has offended me for life ; refused a lady with 
ten thousand pounds, and married a poor miss 
without a doit. 

Sheva. Yes, I do understand your son is mar- 
ried. 

Sir S. Do you so ? By the same token I un- 
derstand you to be a villain. 

Sheva. Aha ! dat is a bad word, dat is very 
bad word — villain. I did never think to hear 
that word from one who says he knows me. I 
pray you, now, permit me to speak to you a word 
or two in my own defence. I have done great 
deal of business for you, sir Stephen ; have put 
a pretty deal of monies in your pocket by my 
pains and labours; I did never wrong you of 
one sixpence in my life : I was content with my 
lawful commission. — How can I be a villain ? 

Sir S. Do you not uphold the son against the 
father ? 

Sheva. I do uphold the son, but not against 
the fader ; it is not natural to suppose the op- 
pressor and the fader one and the same person. 
1 did see your son struck down to the ground 
with sorrow, cut to the heart : I did not stop to 
ask whose hand had laid him low ; I gave him 
mine and raised him up. 

Sir S. You 1 you talk of charity ! 

Sheva. I do not talk of it : I feel it. 

Sir S. What claim have you to generosity, 
humanity, or any manly virtue ? Which of your 
money-making tribe ever had sense of pity ? 
Show me the terms, on which you have lent this 
money, if you dare ! Exhibit the dark deed, 
bv which vou have meshed vonr victim in the, 
D 



38 ' THE JEW. [Cumberland 

snares of usury ; but be assured, I'll drag you to 
the light, and publish your base dealings in 
the world. (^catches hitn by the sleeve) 

Sheva. Take your hand from my coat — my 
coat and I are very old, and pretty well worn 
out together — there, there 1 be patient — mode- 
rate your passions, and you shall see my terms : 
they are in little compass : fair dealings may be 
comprised in few words. 

Sir S. If they are fair, produce them. 

Sheva. Let me see, let me see 1 — Ah, poor 
Sheva 1 — I do so tremble, 1 can hardly hold my 
papers — so, so 1 Now I am right — aha ! here it 
is. Take it. (gives a fiaper) Do you not see it 
now ? Is it not right ? 

Sir S. (reads) Ten thousand fiounds^ invested 
m the three fier cents, money of Eliza, late Rat- 
cliffe, now Bertram 1 

Sir S. I'm thunderstruck ! 

Sheva. Are you so ? I was struck too, but not 
by thunder. Heaven was not angry with a 
poor old man. And what has Sheva done to be 
called villain ?— -I am a Jew, what then ? is that 
a reason none of my tribe should have a sense 
of pity ? You have no great deal of pity your- 
self, but I do know many noble British mer- 
chants that abound in pity, therefore I do not 
abuse your tribe. 

Sir S. I am confounded and ashamed ; I see 
my fault, and most sincerely ask your pardon. 

Sheva. Goot lack, goot lack ! that is too 
much. I pray you, goot sir Stephen, say no 
more ; you'll bring the blush upon my cheek, 
if you demean yourself so far to a poor Jew, 
who is your very humble servant to command. 



Act III] THE JEW. 39 

Sir S. Did my son know miss Ratcliffe had 
this fortune ? 

Sheva. When ladies are so handsome, and so 
g^oot, no generous man will ask about their for- 
tune. 

Sir S. *Tis plain I was not that generous 
man. 

Sheva. No, no, you did ask about nothing 
else. 

Sir S. But how, in the name of wonder, did 
she come by it ? 

Sheva. If you did give me money to buy 
stock, would you not be much offended, were 
I to ask you how you came by it ? 

Sir S. Her brother was my clerk. I did 
not think he had a shilling in the world. 

Sheva. And yet you turned him upon the 
world, where he has found a great many shil- 
lings : The world, you see, was the better mas- 
ter of the two. Well, sir Stephen, I will hum- 
bly take my leave. You wished your son to 
marry a lady with ten thousand pounds ; he has 
exactly fulfilled your wishes : I do presume you 
will not think it necessary to turn him out of 
doors, and disinherit him for that. 

Sir S. Go on, I merit your reproof. I shall 
henceforward be ashamed to look you or my 
son in the face. 

Sheva. To look me in the face, is too see no- 
thing of my heart; to look upon your son, and 
not to love him, I should have thought had been 
impossible.— Sir Stephen, I am your very hum- 
ble servant. 

Sir S. Farewell, friend Sheva ! — Can you for- 
give me ? 



40 ' THE JEW [Cumberland 

Sheva. I can forgive my enemy ; much more 
my friend. [exeunt 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I — a chamber. 

SIR STEPHEN BERTRAM and SAUNDERS. 

Sir S. I am wrong, Saunders, totally wrong, 
in the manner I have resented my son's mar- 
riage. 

Saun. I flattered myself you would not hold 
out long against a worthy son : it is not in the 
nature of a father to resent so deeply. 

Sir S. Very true, Saunders, very true ; my 
heart is not a hard one — but the lady he has 
married has ten thousand pounds for her for- 
tune. 

Saun. Oh, that indeed makes all the differ- 
ence in life. This is a mollifying circumstance, 
I confess. 

Sir S. I know not how she came by it. It 
seems to be the work of magic ; but so it sure- 
ly is ; I saw the stock in Sheva's hands. 

Saun. Well, sir, you could not have it from 
better hands than from the author himself. 

Sir S. How ! What ! from Sheva ! impossi- 
ble ! Ratcliffe is of a great family — Some sud- 
den windfall — some relation dead. You'll see 
him in mourning the next time you meet. 



Act IV] THE JEW. 41 

Saun. He has not put it on yet, for I left him 
this minute in the counting-house : he is wait- 
ing to speak with you. 

Sir S. So, so, so ! Now then the news will come 
out — but, pr'ythee, don't let the gentleman wait. 
We must make up for past slights by double 
civility. Pray inform Mr. Ratclilfe I shall be 
most happy to receive his commands. 

[exit Saunders 
Now I shall be curious to see how this young 
man will carry himself in prosperity. Had I 
but staid one day longer without discharging 
him, I could have met him with a better face. 

enter charles ratcliffe. 

Char. Sir Stephen Bertram, I shall not en- 
gross much of your time. My business will be 
despatched in a very few words. 

Sir S. Whatever commands you may have 
for me, Mr. Ratcliffe, I am perfectly at your 
service. 

Char. I don't doubt it, sir ; but I shall not 
put your spirit to any great trial. My expla- 
nation will not be a hostile one, unless you 
chuse to understand it as such. 

Sir S. Far be it from me to wish it : good 
terms between near connexions, you know, sir, 
should always be cultivated. 

Char. You are pleased to be facetious, but 
your irony will not put me from telling you, 
that your son's connexion with my family is no 
match of my making. If my sister has dis- 
honoured herself, it behoves me to say, and to 
say on my solemn word, that the whole trans- 
action was kept perfectly secret from me, and 



42 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

has received every mark of my displeasure and 
resentment, that I have as yet had an oppor- 
tunity to give it. 

Sir S. Proud as Lucifer himself ! (aside) 
—Well, sir, if you are dissatisfied with the 
match, I can only say I am not in the fault of 
it : but when you say your sister is dishonoured, 
I protest I do not perfectly understand you ; 
nor did I quite expect such an expression from 
you. 

Char. Probably you did not ; your studies 
perhaps have laid more in the book of accounts 
than in the book of honour. 

Sir S. You are very high, sir : I am afraid 
your unexpected good fortune has rather in- 
toxicated you. 

Char. No, sir ; the best good fortune I have 
known this day was that which discharged me 
from your connexion, not this which unwilling- 
ly imposes it upon me. 

Sir S. Very well, Mr. Ratcliffe ! It was not 
with this sort of conversation I was prepared to 
entertain you ; the sooner we put an end to it 
the better ; Only this I must take leave to tell 
you, that the fortune of the family into which 
your sister has married, is by no means over- 
balanced by the fortune she has brought into it. 
Char. Ay, now your heart's come out : that 
mercenary taunt is all you have to say. But 
had my wish prevailed, you never should have 
had it in your power to utter Ratcliffe's name, 
without a blush for your unwarranted suspicion 
of his honour. \^exi( 

Sir S. He's mad ; his head is turned : Pros- 
perity has overset him. If the sister of the 



Act IV] THE JEW. 43 

same blood is provided with no better brains, 
poor Frederic has made a precious bargain. — 
We shall breed candidates for Bedlam. [^exit 

SCENE II— "Sheva^s house, 
enter sheva. 

Sheva. Aha ! Very goot, very goot ! I am at 
home. Now I will sit down in my own parlour, 
and not ask leave of any body — 1 did not think 
I could have given so large a sum away, and 
yet outlived it ; but I am pretty well— there is 
but one man in the world poorer than he was, 
and he is going out of it : and there is a couple 
at least a great deal happier, and they are com- 
ing into it. Well, well, well ! that is two for 
one, cent, per cent, so I have made a pretty 
goot bargain, — now I will ring my bell, and or- 
der my dinner : yes, yes, I will eat my dinner, 
for I am hungry. [sits — rings') 

enter jabal. 

Sheva. Oh ! you knave ! Oh ! you picklock ! 
how dare you listen at my door, and hear my 
secrets ? sirrah, I will have your ears nailed to 
it. — Don't you speak, don't you speak : you 
will make me angry, and that will spoil my ap- 
petite. — What have you got in the house for my 
repast ? 

Jabal. Plenty, as good look will have it. 

Sheva. Plenty, say you ? what is it ? let me 
hear. 



44 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

Jabal. One egg-shell, and the skins of three 
potatoes : shall I serve them up at once, or 
make two courses of them ? 

Sheva. How now, you jackanapes ! One egg- 
shell is nothing goot for a hungry man. — Have 
you left some of the potatoes in the skins ? 

Jabal. Not an atom ; you may have the broth 
they were boiled in. 

Sheva. You are a saucy knave, to make a 
joke of your master. Do you think I will keep 
a jack-pudding in my house like you, to listen 
at my key-hole, and betray my conversation ? 
Why did you say I gave away my monies ? 

Jabal. What harm did I do ? Nobody believ- 
ed me. 

Sheva. Go your ways, go your ways ; you 
are not for my purpose, you are not fit to be 
trusted ; you do let your idle tongue run away 
with you. 

Jabal. That is because you won't employ my 
teeth. 

Sheva. You do prate too much ; you do chat- 
ter, and bring your poor master into great 
straits ; I have been much maltreated and 
abused. 

Jabal. Have you so ? I wish to goodness I 
I had been by. 

Sheva. Sirrah ! you wish you had been by, 
to hear your master abused ? 

Jabal. Yes, for I would have dealt the fellow 
that abused you, such a recompense in the fifth 
button, that he should have remembered it as 
long as he lived. Damn it! do you think I 
would stand by, and hear my master abused ? 



Act IV] THE JEW. 45 

Sheva. Don't you swear, don't you s\veai>— 
that is goot lad, but don't you swear. 

Jabal. No, though I may be starved in your 
service, I will die in your defence. 

Sheva. Well, well ; you are a merry knave— 
but my eyes do water a little : the air is sharp, 
and they are weak. Go your ways, go your ways 
—send Dorcas to me. (^exit Jabal) I cannot tell 
what ails my heart all this day long, it is so 
troublesome. I have spent ten thousand pounds, 
to make it quiet; but there must be a little 
fraction more — I must give the poor knave 
something for his good will — oh, dear, oh, dear ! 
What will become of me ? 

enter dorcas. 

So, so ! come hither, Dorcas. Why do you look 
sad ? what ails you, girl ? Why do you cry ? 

Dorcas. Because you are going to turn away 
Jabal : he is the kindliest, willingest, good-na- 
turedest soul alive — the house will be a dungeon 
without Jabal. 

Sheva. Then tell him, 'tis at your request I 
let him stay in this dungeon. Say, that I was 
very angry with him, but that you pacified my 
anger. 

Dorcas. Lord love your heart ! that is so like 
you. 

Sheva. Hark you, Dorcas, I will give you this 
piece of money to make the poor knave merry 1 
but mind that you bestow it on him as your own 
little present, and promise not to say it comes 
from me. 

Dorcas. Well ! to be sure you do not give 
your money like other people. If ever I do a 



46 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

good turn, I take care the person I favour should 
know from whence it comes, that so he may 
have the pleasure of returning it. Here comes 
your friend and neighbour, Mrs. Goodison; she 
will take care of you. \_exU 

enter mrs. goodison. 

Mrs. G. Ah ! my good sir, I perceive you 
are at your old sport ; no smoke in your chim- 
ney, no cloth upon your table, full coffers and an 
empty cup-board. 

Sheva. No, no, my coffers are not full, I am 
very poor just now. 

Mrs. G. Come, then, and partake with one 
whom your bounty has made rich. 

Sheva. Do not talk of my bounty; I do ne- 
ver give away for bounty's sake ; if pity wrings 
it from my heart, whether I will or not, then I 
do give : how can I help it ! 

Mrs. G. Well, sir, I can be silent, but I can- 
not forget — and now, if you will come and share 
my grateful meal, perhaps I can show you one 
of the loveliest objects in creation, a beautiful 
and amiable young bride, who, with her husband 
and mother, is now my lodger. She was mar- 
ried this very morning, to your friend sir Ste- 
phen Bertram's son, who, between you and me, 
has brought himself into sad trouble with his 
father by the match. But surely, if there is a 
woman upon earth worth a man's being ruin- 
ed for, it must be this young creature-— so mo- 
dest, so sweet-tempered, so engaging— oh that 
sir Stephen had your heart I 

Sheva. It might be inconvenient to him, if he 
had ; it is not kept fornothing, I assure you. 



Act IV] THE JEW. 47 

Mrs. G. You would not turn such a daugh- 
ter-in-law from your doors — 

Sheva. Nor will he, perhaps. 

Mrs. G. Ah, sir I I know a little better : 
this poor young gentleman himself told me he 
was ruined. " But don't be afraid to take me 
into your house," added he, with a sigh that 
went to my heart, " I am provided with the 
means of doing justice to you, by a generous 
friend," showing me a bank bill of one hundred 
pounds — heaven bless the generous friend ! quoth 
I — and at that moment I thought of you, my 
good Mr. Sheva, who rescued me from the like 
distress when my poor husband died. 

Sheva. You may think of me, Mrs. Goodison ; 
but I beg you will not speak of me in the hear- 
ing of your lodgers. 

Mrs. G. Well, well, sir, if I must not speak, 
I must not ; yet a strange thing came out in 
conversation with the mother of the bride, a 
very excellent lady, from whom I found out that 
she is the widow of that very gentleman we 
knew at Cadiz by the name of don Carlos. 

Sheva. Mercies upon his heart I he was the 
preserver of my life ! but for his charitable suc- 
cour, this poor body would have fed the fires of 
an auto da fe. Is it possible Mrs. Ratcliffe is 
the widow of my benefactor ? 

Mrs. G. Most certain that she is ; which you 
may soon be convinced of j but I perceive you 
know the lady's name. 

Sheva. Did you not name the lady yourself? 

Mrs. G. No, on my word. Ah, sir 1 you are 
fairly caught; you have betrayed yourself: ill 



48 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

deeds, they say, will come to light, and so will 
good ones, it should seem. 

Sheva. Hold your tongue, hold your tongue; 
you forget that I am fasting, and without a din- 
ner ; go your ways, and I will follow ; you are 
nimble, I am slow ; you will be ashamed with 
your lodgers, if they see you with a poor old 
Jew like me. 

Mrs. G. Ah ! you are cunning in your cha- 
rities ; but I'll do as you would have me, and 
be ready at the door, to receive and welcome 
you. [exit 

Sheva. The widow of my preserver from the 
inquisitors of Cadiz, and the mother of my res- 
cuer from the mob of London I — Dear me, dear 
mie ! How Providence disposes all things ! — the 
friend, that's dead, wants nothing ; the friend 
that is alive, shall likewise want nothing, that 
I can give him ; goot lack I goot lack 1 I did 
always think, when I did heap up monies with 
such pains and labour, that I should find an use 
for them at last. \^ea:U 

SCENE III — 3Irs. Goodison's house. 

MRS. RATCLIFFE, ELIZA, and CHARLES. 

Char. I have cleared myself to his father, 
and I'll clear myself to all the world. 

Mrs. R. Charles, Charles, you soar too high. 

Char. Madam, madam I 

Mrs. R. How is your honour slighted, when 
your friend did not even consult his father ? 

Char. He knew his father's mind too well 

Afr.9. R. And what would you have done ' 



Act IV] THE JEW. 49 

Char. I would have saved my friend. 

Eliza. And sacrificed your sister — that, let 
me say, is a high strain of friendship, but no 
great proof of brotherly affection. 

Char. Sister, there is more peace of mind 
sacrificed by indulging in an act to be repented 
of, than by foregoing a dishonorable propensity. 
The woman without fortune, that consents to a 
clandestine marriage with a man whose whole 
dependence is upon an unforgiving father, never 
can be justified. 

Eliza. You argue from the unforgiving nature 
of sir Stephen Bertram : you had experience 
of it, I had none. 

Char. You might have had, by an appeal to 
his consent before you gave your own. 

Mrs. R. You bear too hard upon your sister. 
You forget her sex, her situation, your own 
tenderness, and the affection you have ever borne 
her. 

Char. No, madam, if I could forget how 
proudly I have thought of her, I should not be 
so humbled by her conduct as I am. I own I 
stand in amaze at your indifference. You think 
I am too proud ; you tell me, that I soar too 
high. How was it when I was this Bertram's 
clerk \ I bore my lot with patience ; I submit- 
ted without murmuring to poverty : I cannot 
brook disgrace. 

Eliza. Well, Charles, if you could love me 
only whilst you thought me faultless, I must 
wonder how it was that we were friends so long: 
And now you have said all that rigid justice 
can enforce against me : had you said less, I 
should have felt it more. 
E 



50 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

enter Frederic. 

Fred. Charles— brother — friend ! — Will you 
not give me joy ? Come, man, shake off this 
cloud, and smile upon my happiness ; we catch 
it but by gleams. 

Char. Yes, sir, we sometimes catch it by sur- 
prise and stealth ; we catch it by a breach of 
promise and good faith — then to congratulate a 
man, in my sense of the word, would be to libel 
him. 

Fred. I have frequently seen cause to applaud 
your philosophy, Charles : now I must think 
you carry it too far. 

Char. It touches you too near, therefore you 
like it not. 

Fred. To that remark I should return an an- 
swer, were not these dear pledges present, that 
might a little ruffle your philosophy, perhaps, 
but it would fully vindicate my principle. 

Char. Postpone it, then, but don't forget it. 

Fred. When friends fall into altercation on 
such points as these, there should be none to 
witness their folly. 

Char. Folly!— 

Mrs. R. Son, son, no more of this. 

Eliza. Stop, I conjure you both ! — Charles, 
Charles, if you have love or pity left, let this 
dissension go no further.—- And you, Frederic 
— husband ! You, whose generous heart has 
put to hazard every hope for me, add yet ano- 
ther proof of love, by suffering these rebukes 
with patience ; perhaps my brother thinks am- 
bition, meanness, artifice might have some part, 
some influence, in moving me to what I've done 



Act IV] THE JEW. 51 

— -I spurn such motives, disavow them all— were 
I in Frederic's place, and he in mine, I should 
have done as he did ; I should have thought no 
sacrifice too great to have secured a lasting in- 
terest in a heart like his. 

Char. This had been only ruin to yourself, 
and would have had the plea of spirit, therefore 
more excusable : but this no man of honour 
would have suffered ! therefore 'tis only said, 
not done. 

Fred. Whatever my Eliza says is done ; her 
actions verify her words, and he, that doubts 
them, would dispute against the light of heaven. 
'Tis I that am advanced, she is abased ; 'tis I 
that am enriched, Eliza is impoverished : I only 
risk a few sharp words from an ungentle father, 
she suffers keen reproaches, undeserved, from 
an injurious brother. 

Char, Urge me no further — I can bear n a 
more. 

Eliza. Oh, my dear mother ! 

{^falls into her arms) 

Fred. There, there ! You've struck her to the 
heart, and that's a coward's blow ! 

(apart to Charles in an under voice) 
My life, my soul, look up ! Dear madam, take 
her hence. {Mrs. Ratcliffe takes Eliza out) 

Char. A coward's blow! — you recollect those 
words, and know their meaning, I suppose— 

Fred. Yes, and will meet your comment when 
you will, and where you will. 

Char. Then follow me, and we'll adjust that 
matter speedily. 

Fred. I will but drop a tear upon the ruin 
you have made, and then be with you. 

Char. I'll wait for you below. [exit 



52 -THE JEW. [Cumberland 

enter eliza, hastily. 

Eliza. Where are you both, rash men ? Ah, 
Frederic ! alone ! what is become of Charles ? 
why is he gone away ? what have you said to 
him ? I am sure you have quarrelled. 

Fred. No, no, not quarrelled— only jarred, as 
friends will sometimes do — all will be set to 
rights. 

Eliza. IJow ? when ? why not this moment, 
in my hearing ? I shall be happy to make peace 
between you. 

Fred. Peace will be made, assure yourself, 
sweet love : these little heats are easily ad- 
justed. 

Eliza. But I could do it best ! you are too 
hot, both, both too hot and fiery. 

Fred. We shall be cooler soon ; such heats 
soon spend themselves, and then the heart is 
laid to rest. 

Eliza. Heaven grant such rest to yours ! 

Fred, Indeed ! 

Eliza. What says my Frederic ? you struggle 
to get loose — are these soft toils uneasy to you ; 
will not your proud swelling heart endure such 
gentle fond imprisonment. 

Fred. Oh 1 thou angelic virtue, soul dissolv- 
ing softness, would I might thus expire, enfold- 
ed in these arms ! Love, I conjure thee to bear 
up I I am sure my father will take pity, and be 
kind to thee : I shall assail his feelings in a man- 
ner, that no parent can resist. I am going now 
to put it to the proof. — Farewell ! 



Act IV] THE JEW. 53 

Eliza. Why in such haste ? — Stay yet a little 
while— if you depart so soon, you'll meet with 
Charles again, and then — 

Fred. What then ? 

Eliza. Some fatal accident will be the issue 
of it. Alas ! you know not what his passions 
are when once inflamed ! let them burn out, and 
then he*s as calm as water. 

Fred. Where does this tend ? You would not 
make a coward of your husband ? 

Eliza. No ; nor would you make a distracted 
wretch of your poor Eliza : therefore I will not 
let you loose, till you have promised me not to 
provoke him to more violence : promise me 
this, and you shall go. 

Fred. Well, then, if that will set your mind 
at rest, I promise you I'll have no further alter- 
cation with him, not another word to gall him. 

Eliza. You'll not renew your quarrel ? — 

Fred. No, my Eliza, we will end it and dis- 
miss it. 

Eliza. And this you promise on your hon- 
OUl' — 

Fred. Yes, I do promise. 

Eliza. Then all my fears are over— now you 
may go. — Well ! what withholds you ? what 
more do you wish than freedom, and release 
from my fond arms. 

Fred. To snatch one last dear moment, and 
then die within them — oh ! my soul's better 
part, may Heaven preserve and bless you ! 

[exeunt 
E 2 



54 THE JEW. [Cumberland 



ACT V. 



SCENE I — a tavern. 



enter frederic, attended by a waiter. 

Fred. Is the porter returned, who went with 
my mesage to Mr. Saunders, at sir Stephen 
Bertram's ? 

Wait. He is, sir : the gentleman will be with 
you presently. 

Fred. Show him up, as soon as he comes — 
there will be another gentleman call ; I believe 
you know Mr. Ratcliffe ? 

Wait. Yes, we know Mr. Ratcliffe very well. 

Fred. If he comes while Mr. Saunders is with 
me, request him to wait a few minutes, till he 
is gone. 

Wait. I shall, sir — any other commands ? 

Fred. None, {exit waiter) I scarce know what 
I've written to my father ; yet perhaps these 
few lines, in such a moment, may dispose him 
to protect the widow, if fate will have it so, of 
a discarded son.' — Now I am ready for this an- 
gry champion ; and since he is resolved to vin- 
dicate his courage by his sword, let him pro- 
duce his weapons when he will. Til not refuse 
the satisfaction he demands. 



ActV] THE JEW. 55 

enter jabal, hastily. 

Jabal. Oh, sir, sir ! I'm overjoyed to find you 
—come, I pray you, come away to my old mas» 
ter, who is pining till he sees you. 

Fred. Who is your master, and who are you ? 

Jabal. As if you did not know Jabal, who 
lives— no, hold there, who does not live, but 
starves with your old friend, in Duke's Place. 
Why, lud-a-mercy, I knew your honour at the 
length of the street, and saw you turn into this 
tavern : the puppy waiter would have stopped 
me from coming up to you. 

Fred. I wish you had taken his advice. 

Jabal. That would not be your wish, if you 
knew all. Sure enough I must hunt up Mr. 
Ratcliffe also : for there is an iron in the fire 
for each of you : master is making his will— « 
lawyer Dash is at his elbow. 

Fred. If the devil was at his elbow, I cannot 
come to him. 

Jabal. I would not carry such a message back 
for all the world— why, when lawyer Dash has 
pen and ink in hand, and a will under his thumb, 
he'll dash you in, or dash you out, in a crack. 

Fred. Then temper the apology to your taste, 
only let your master understand I cannot come, 

Jabal. I'll tell him, then, you are married-— 
that will be a silencer at once.— (asif/e) What^ 
has he got a sword ! Some mischief going for- 
ward—I'll tell my old master. 

Fred. Begone 1 make haste [•^^{exit Jabal) 
Married ! How cutting is that recollection ! 
Joys just in sight, shown only to be snatched 
away. Dear, lost, undone, Eliza ! — But I won't 



56 * THE JEW. [Cumberland 

think, for that is madness— inexorable honour 
must be obeyed. 

enter mr. saunders. 

Saun. Mr. Bertram, I came to you the first 
moment I could get away ; for I longed to give 
you joy. 

Fred. Be silent on that subject, I conjure you. 
The favour I have to ask you, is simply this— 
here is a letter for my father : deliver it to him 
with your own hands— you seem surprised. 

Saun. I am, indeed — the impatience of yout* 
looks — the hurry of your speech — the place in 
which I meet you — 

Fred. The letter will explain all that— I could 
not give it you in presence of my — well, no 
matter— I take you for a man of honour, and 
my friend. Will you give the letter ? 

Saun. Assuredly ; but, if I am a man of hon- 
our, and your friend, why will not you let me 
stay with you ? In truth, dear Frederic, I am a 
friend, that, if you want him, will not flinch. 

Fred. The friend I want, is one that will not 
force his services upon me when I can't accept 
of them ; but take my word at once and leave 
me. 

Saun. Enough ! I am gone. [exic 

Fred. I have been harsh with that good man ; 
but this suspense is terrible. 

enter waiter. 

Wait. Mr. Ratcliffe desires to know if you 
are at leisure. 

Fred. Perfectly— let him know I*m at his 
service. [exit waiter 



Act V] THE JEW. 57 

enter charles ratcliffe. 

Char. I have brought my sword ; I presume 
you have no objection to the weapon. 

Fred. None on my own account ; a little, 
perhaps, on the score of vanity, as thinking I 
have some advantage over you in point of skill 
and practice. 

Char. As far as that opinion goes, you are 
welcome to all the advantages it gives you. Oh I 
sir, this is a sorry business— will nothing else 
convince you I am incapable of giving a cow- 
ard's blow ? 

Fred. You have offered nothing else : it is a 
mode of your own chusing. 

Char. Your language forced it on me : you 
have touched my feelings to the quick. Words, 
such as you made use of, cannot be passed over 
without absolute disgrace, unless you will re- 
voke them by apology. 

Fred. You may well conceive, Mr. Ratcliffe, 
with what repugnance I oppose myself to you 
on this occasion. Whether the event be fatal to 
you or to myself, small consolation will be left 
for the survivor. The course you take is war- 
ranted by every rule of honour, and you act no 
otherwise than I expected ; but, as my expres- 
sion justifies your challenge, so did your provo- 
cation justify my expression : and your lan- 
guage being addressed to a lady, whom I have 
the honour to protect, it is not in my power to 
retract one tittle of what I said ; for, was you 
to repeat the same insult, I should follow it with 
the same retort. 



58 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

Char. If you hold to the words, I know not 
how we can adjust it amicably. 

Fred. I will speak plainly to you, and the ra- 
ther as I am now perhaps speaking to you for 
the last time — admitted by your sister's favour 
into a family, whose representative resents her 
conduct, I will not so disgrace her choice in 
your eyes, who have opposed it, as to submit in 
the first instance to the most distant hint at an 
apology. 

Char. No more — defend yourself. 

{they Jight) 

Fred. What's that ? I've wounded you ! 

Char. No. 

Fred. Yes ; I'm sure of it. 'Tis in your arm ; 
you cannot poise your sword. 

{Charles is disarmed) 

Char. It is too true : your point has hit me 
through the guard : I'm at your mercy. 

Fred. I am at yours, dear Charles, for par- 
don and forgiveness : now I retract my words, 
and blush for having used them — let me bind 
up your wrist : here is a handkerchief— shall I 
call for assistance ? 

Char. No, no ; a scratch ; 'tis nothing. It 
scarce bleeds — hark ! somebody is at the door 
—take up the swords. 

Sheva. {without) Let me in ; I pray you, 
gentlemen, let me in. I am Sheva, your friend. 

Char. Open the door, Frederic. 

enter sheva. 

Sheva. Dear me ! dear me ! what have you 
been about ? Gootness defend me ! is it come 
to this ? are you not friends ? are you not bro- 



Act V] THE JEW. 59 

thers ? is that a reason you should quarrel ? And 
if you differ, must you fight ? can your swords 
argue better than their masters ? You call that 
an affair of honour, I suppose ; under your fa- 
vour, 1 do not think it a very honourable affair; 
'tis only giving a fine name to a foul deed. 
Goot lack, goot lack ! what is the matter with 
your wrist ? 

Char. Nothing to signify ; a trifling scratch. 

Sheva. A scratch, you call it ; I pray you come 
to my poor house, and let that scratch be healed ; 
you had great care for me, let me have some for 
you : that is my sense of an affair of honour; 
to pay the debt of gratitude that I do owe to you, 
and to your fader, who preserved my life in 
Spain, that is my point of honour. 

Char. My father ! did you know my father ? 

Sheva. That you shall hear, when I have 
shown you how I purpose to dispose of my af- 
fairs.- — As for you, Mr. Bertram — come, come, 
let us depart : put up your swords, I hope we 
have no further use for them. \_exeunt 



SCENE II — Mrs, Goodison*s. 

SIR STEPHEN BERTRAM and MRS. GOODISON. 

Mrs. G. Your son is not at home. Sir Ste- 
phen ; but Mrs. Bertram is ; and if you will al- 
low me to call her down, I'm sure she will be 
happy to pay her duty to you. 

Sir S. A moment's patience, Mrs. Goodison. 
— you seem much interested for this young 
bride, your lodger. 



60 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

Mrs. G. It is impossible to be otherwise. 
She has beauty to engage the eye, and manners 
to interest the heart. 

Sir S, Some pride of family about her, I 
should guess ; a little of her brother's vivacity 
perhaps. 

Mrs. G. None that appears : mildness, and 
modesty, and every gentle grace, inherently her 
own. 

Sir S. Be pleased to tell her, I attend to pay^ 
my compliments ; and, as young ladies* char- 
acters are not so easily developed in the com- 
pany of their mothers, I would be glad she 
would allow me to confer with her alone. 

[^exii Mrs. Goodison 
Now I shall have this mystery unravelled. 
Saunders's notion, that the fortune comes from 
Sheva, is romantic in the extreme. Why should 
he portion her ? She has no Jew's blood in her 
veins, we'll hope ; and as to a deception, that he 
dare not practise.*— 'She comes ! By heavens, a 
lovely creature ! 

enter eliza. 

Eliza. You honour me most highly, sir— 

Sir S. Not so, madam ; the honour is confer- 
red on me. 

Eliza. How have I merited this condescen- 
sion ? 

Sir S. Gall it not condescension ; it is no 
more than is due from one, who is proud to 
embrace the title you have allowed him to as- 
sume. 

Eliza. This is beyond my hopes. Will you 
permit me then to call myself your daugb- 



Act V] THE JEW. 61 

ter, and entreat a blessing and a pardon on my 
knees ? 

Sir S. Not for the world, in that submissive 
posture. All you can ask is granted, with ac- 
knowledgments on my part for the happiness 
you have bestowed upon my son— had certain 
circumstances occurred before your marriage, 
that have since turned up, I presume you would 
not have precipitated matters, at least not in the 
secret manner they were carried. 

Eliza. What circumstances, sir, may you 
allude to ? 

Sir S. The death, as I suppose, in your 
family— 

Eliza. Good Heaven forbid ! What death ? 
is it my brother — 

Sir S. No ; your brother, madam, no ! Pray 
be not thus alarmed 1 — I know your brother's 
circumstances too well, to suppose your sudden 

fortune could proceed from him perhaps 

some distant relation, or some friend, may have 
bequeathed 

Eliza, What ? let me ask. — I know of no be- 
quest. 

Sir S. Call it a gift, then, a donation on your 
marriage— it must have been an agreeable sur- 
prise to my son, to have been presented with a 
fortune so unexpected. 

Eliza. I am loth to think sir Stephen Ber- 
tram can descend to ridicule my poverty ; — that 
I should be regarded by you as an unwelcome 
intruder upon your family, I can well believe. 
Conscious that I have incurred your displea- 
sure, I shall patiently endeavour to soften it by 
-ubmission and obedience. 
F 




62 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

Sir S. Madam, that answer is at once so paci- 
fying and so candid, that if the information I 
have had of your being possessed of ten thous- 
and pounds for your fortune, be false, though I 
thought I had pretty strong evidence of it 

Eliza. Impossible !— I'm sure your son, I'm 
sure my brother never told you this ? 

Sir S. I did not say they did. 

Eliza. No, they would disdain so gross and 
palpable a deceit. 

Sir S. Well, be it as it may, with, or with* 
out a fortune, portioned or pennyless, I feel my- 
self so irresistibly impelled to open my arms to 
you as a father, that whether Sheva has or has not 
deceived me, I here deposit my resentment ; 
and, by what I experience of your power over 
my heart, most thoroughly acquit my son for 
having surrendered his. 

Eliza. It is the impulse of your own gene- 
rosity, not any impression of my giving, that 
moves your heart to pity and forgiveness. 
But who is Sheva, that you seem to point at as 
the author of this falsehood ? 

Sir S. Sheva, the Jew surely you know 

the man ? 

Eliza. Thank Heaven, I do not; I can safely 
say, I never, to my recollection, heard his name 
before. — Some vile impostor, I suppose. 

Sir S. Not quite that, though bad enough to 
be so treated, if he has practised this deceit on 
me. — Sheva is my broker ; your husband knows 
him well ; a miserly methodical old Alley 
drudge, who showed me what I believed a 
true receipt for ten thousand pounds, vested in 
your name, in the funds.— -One of my people 



Act V] THE JEW. 63 

would have persuaded me, it was his own vol- 
untary benefaction. — But if you don't know him, 
never saw him, never heard his name, the thing's 
impossible. 

Eliza. Totally so, whithout one ray of pro- 
bability. No Jew of that or any other name, 
do I know. 

Sir S. Your merit, then, and not your fortune, 
shall endear you to me. I will strike out ten 
thousand pounds, that I perceive you are not 
possessed of, and write in ten thousand graces, 
which I perceive you are possessed of, and so 
balance the account. — Now, Saunders, what's 
the matter ? 

enter saunders. 

Sau7i. Your son requested me to give this 
letter into your hands. 

Sir S. No, no — there needs no letter — tell him, 
it is done ; say, that you found me conquered 
in less time than he was. Bid him make haste 
hither in person, before I run away with his 
wife ; and let him write no more letters, for I 
won't read a word of them. [^exit Saunders 

Eliza. Won't you be pleased to open your 
letter ? 

Sir S. Positively I will not read it, because 
Frederic shall not have to say, that his rhetoric 
had any share in making me a convert. If it is, 
as I suppose, a recital of your graces and good 
qualities, I do not want his description to assist 
my sense of what I see; but if you have a wish 
to see your own fair person painted by his hand, 
you are welcome to indulge it. 

(takes the letter and g-ives it to Eliza) 
Break the seal 



€4 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

Eliza. 'Tis short — I'll read it to you — / am 
this instant summoned^ by Charles Ratcliffe^ on 
a point of honour^ sword to sword Oh ! Hea- 
vens ! — I can no more {drofis the letter) 

Sir S. What is it ? What alarms you ? 

Eliza. Oh ! that letter ! that letter !— My 
husband and my brother ! — or one or both have 
fallen I 

Sir S. Merciful powers forbid it ! 

(takes up. the letter) 

Eliza. Stop not to read it ! fly ! and take me 
with you — plant me between them ; I am the 
cause of quarrel I — 

enter FR1EDY.-RIC, followed by charles. 

Fred. My love, my life, my ever dear Eliza ! 

Eliza. Where is your wound ? — Are you not 
dying ? — What is become of Charles ? 

Char. Here is your happy brother— all is 
well. 

Fred. We are both here, with friendly hearts, 
and joyful news, to greet you. 

Eliza. Don't speak of joy too soon : 'twill 
overthrow my senses — let me survey you both. 
Don't deceive me ; you have wounds about you 
Ah ! Charles, what's this ? 

Char. The least, but luckiest wound that ever 
man received : — this little glance of your brave 
husband's sword, disarmed me of my weap- 
on, and both our rash hearts of their anger. 
Now lay aside your fears, and prepare your- 
selves for wonders. 

Fred. Oh 1 sir, I have offended you ; but— 

Sir S. But what ? You have an advocate, that 
makes all hearts her own. Spare your appeal ; 
you will but waste your words. 



ActV] THE JEW. 65 

enter mrs. ratcliffe. 

Eliza. Oh, my dear madam ! I h^ve joy to 
give you— let me present you to my Frederic's 
father. 

Sir S. Yes, madam ; and the greatest joy that 
son ever conferred upon me, is, the title he has 
given me, to claim a father's share with you in 
this angel of a daughter. 

Mrs. R. Such she has been to me. I am blest 
to hear you say, that you approve her. 

Sir S. Frederic, give me your hand — if you 
had bFought me half the Indies with a wife, I 
should not have joined your hand to hers with 
such sincere delight. 

Fred. How generous is that declaration ! 
Now, Charles, 'tis time to introduce our friend. 

\_exit Charles 

Mrs. R. What does he mean, Eliza ? 

Eliza. I know no more than you : some new 
wonder, I suppose. 

Sir 5. Ha ! Sheva here ? This is indeed a 
wonder. 

enter charles, nvith sheva. 

Char. This is the man — my benefactor ; 
yours, Eliza ; Frederic's ; yours, dear mother ! 
all mankind's : the widow's friend, the orphan's 
father, the poor man's protector, the universal 
philanthropist. 

Sheva. Hush, hush ! you make me hide my 
face. {^covers his face with his hands) 

Char. Ah, sir ! 'tis now too late to cover your 
good deeds : You have long masked your cha- 
rities beneath this humble seeming, and shrunk 



66 THE JEW. [Cumberland 

back from actions, princes might have gloried 
in : You must now face the world, and transfer 
the blush from your own cheeks to theirs, whom 
prejudice had taught to scorn you. For your 
single sake we must reform our hearts, and in- 
spire them with candour towards your whole na- 
tion. 

Sheva. Enough, enough ! more than enough 
—I pray you spare me : I am not used to hear 
the voice of praise, and it oppresses me : I 
should not know myself, if you were to describe 
me ; I have a register within, in which these 
merits are not noted. Simply I am an honest 
man, no more ; fair in my dealings, as my good 
patron here, I hope, can witness. — That lady, I 
believe, is Mrs. Ratcliffe; she does not know 
me : I will not touch upon a melancholy subject, 
else I could tell a story — merciful Heaven ! what 
horrors was I snatched from by her husband, 
now, alas ! no more ! 

Mrs. R. Oh, gracious powers ! — the Jew of 
Cadiz — 

Sheva. The very same — your debtor in no less 
a sum than all that I possess, the earnings of a 
life preserv'd first by your husband, and now 
again by your son. Why am I prais'd then, if 
I am merely honest and discharge my debts ? 

Sir S. Ah ! now the mystery's solv'd. The 
ten thousand pounds were your's.— Give them 
to Ratcliffe ; I will have nothing from fortune, 
where nature gives so much. 

Sheva. That is a noble speech — but monies 
does not lessen merit, at least not always, as I 
hope, for Mr. Ratcliffe's sake ; for he is heir of 
all that I possess. 



Act V] THE JEW. 67 

Mrs. R. What can I say ? My heart's too 
full for utterance. O Charles, the fortunes of 
your house revive ; surely the blessed spirit of 
your departed father now sympathizes in our 
joy. Remember, son, to whom you owe this 
happiness, and emulate his virtues. 

Char. If I forget to treat my fortune, as be- 
comes the son of such a father, and the heir of 
such a benefactor, your warning will be my con- 
demnation. 

Fred. That it will never be : the treasure that 
integrity has collected, cannot be better lodg'd 
than in the hands of honour. 

Sir S. It is a mine of wealth. 

Sheva. Excuse me, goot sir Stephen, it is not 
a mine, for it was never out of sight of those 
who searched for it : the poor man did not dig 
to find it ; and where I now bestow it, it will be 
found by him again. I do not bury it in a syna- 
gogue or any other costly pile ; I do not waste 
it upon vanity or public works : I leave it to a 
charitable heir, and build my hospital in the 
human heart. 



END OF THE JEW. 



EPILOGUE. 

Tkxjth has declar'd, and question it none can. 
Woman was once a rib of lordly Man ; 
And some perhaps would risque a' little pain 
To hitch that rib into its place ag-ain ; 
For let the heart-ache, or what aught betide. 
They're sure to trace it to the peccant side, 
Till fix'd at leng-th they centre all the blame 
In tiiat one rib, from whence the Woman came, 

Now this is downright prejudice and spleen, 
A plea for thrusting us behind the scene ; 
And there we stood, for many a long, long age, 
Nor let to steal one foot upon the stage ! 
Till now, when all their tyrant acts are past, 
Curtsying we come like Epilogue at last ; 
And you so little are inclin'd to rout us. 
You wonder how your fathers did without us. 

Sure we can lightlier touch those feeling parts, 
That twine about the region of your hearts ; 
Passion that from the lips of woman flows. 
Warm to man's soul with magic swiftness goes; 
And tho' the sphere be small in which we move. 
Great is the recompence when you approve. 
Whilst nature and your candour hold their course, 
So long our charter will remain in force ; 
Nor will you grudge the privilege you g-ave, 
'Till we forget to smile upon ihe brave. 
Still in the slip'ry path, that brings us near 
Forbidden precincts, we must tread with fear, 
Does my weak cast in tragic pathos lie ? 
Why then so dismal, gentle poet, why ? 
In mirth oft' times the nuptial knot I've ty'd. 
But never was till now a mourning bride. 
If to my share some moving speeches fall, 
" Look in my face and they'll not move at all.'* 

Yet, not to drop at once Eliza's stile. 
One word in earnest and without a smile — 
Thro' all the characters of varied life. 
All tbj fond casts of parent, child, or wife. 
What part soe'er our author has assign'd, 
To that we must conform with patient mind ; 
So at the drama's close M'hen we appear, 
We may obtain a parting plaudit here. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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